A Song Yet Unsung
by Tormentas
Summary: As Dacey Mormont watched her home burn at the hands of Ironborn, she begged to any god that would listen to give her a chance at vengeance. Something heard her. Now she has her chance at revenge, but in bargains with gods, what we ask for often comes with a terrible price, and what we receive is rarely what we want.
1. Dacey I

All rights belong to George R R Martin

Sorry for the long absence, but my schedules really kicking my ass

As of now, my artemis fowl story is on indefinite hold. I will get back to it, I promise!

Read and Review!

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><p>Dacey<p>

The Ironborn came just after dusk, five longships flying the black horn of House Goodbrother. The Ironborn had taken the hall of the Mormonts almost without a fight, lightly armored raiders slipping over the walls and murdering the sentries. They had opened the gates and a hundred Ironborn had stormed inside. The battle was over almost before it began, guards surrounded and butchered, some locked in their barracks and burned alive. The Ironborn pulled women and children from their beds, dragging men outside to be beaten and chained, or slaughtered like dogs for resisting.

Dacey had woken just in time to find a sword before the Ironborn burst into the Mormont keep. Maege Mormont barred their way, the grim matron of Bear Island gripping a heavy mace in one hand, a sword in the other.

With a strength that many would not have thought possible, the old woman waded into the oncoming Ironborn, crushing shields and hewing limbs, howling like a mad woman. Dacey had leapt to aid her mother, battering away the shield of a Ironborn, and burying her sword in his chest. At the rear of the hall, her sister Alys stood over the youngest daughters of Mormont, a great axe in her hands.

Two raiders rushed Dacey. One she dispatched with a swift blow to the groin, seizing his round shield and hammering it into the face of the second. The man mewled like a child as the bones of his face shattered against the shield boss, and became a soft gurgle as Dacey buried a sword in him. Maege Mormont roared again, swinging her mace low, sending Ironborn tumbling backwards.

"Seal the doors!" The old woman yelled to Dacey. "Seal the doors!"

Dacey tried, she really did. She drove back the Ironborn before here, pushing her way to the heavy double doors from which the raiders poured inside. But there were too many. For every Ironborn she cut down, four more stepped forwards, laughing and cheering. The raiders had pushed far enough inside to form a shield wall, which both they and Dacey knew would not break from the blows of two warriors.

The Ironborn stepped forwards, over their dead, and Dacey knew the raiders had won. They drove her and her mother backwards, back towards the end of the hall, allowing dozens more warriors to clamber inside.

"Put down your sword." Maege Mormont grunted. "It's no use."

The old woman let her mace fall with a dull clank to the floor.

An Ironborn stepped out from behind the shield wall. He wore heavy mail jerkins and dark red tunics, embossed with the Goodbrother sigil. His head was bear, and long brown hair hung down over his pale, sunken eyes.

"I am Greydon Goodbrother." The warrior gestured at Maege Mormont. "You will give me your sword."

"You've no right to be here Ironborn." Maege growled, her hand still gripping her sword. "This hall is under the protection of the Starks."

The warrior looked around the hall. "Starks? I see no Starks here." He grinned, and his warriors jeered loudly.

"You will pay for this!" Dacey snapped. "House Stark will not stand for this attack on its bannermen."

The Ironborn turned towards her. "By morning, my men will be gone. The Starks will find only ashes, and no trace of my ships." He turned away. "Seize her."

Dacey struggled against the hands that grabbed her, dragging her from the hall. Maege screamed in fury, rushing to save her eldest daughter.

The last thing Dacey saw as she was dragged by her hair from the hall was a dozen raiders falling upon her mother, axes stained red.

T

The Ironborn chained her to a heavy cast iron grate, not far from a sodden group of weeping women who sat under the guard of five leering warriors. Dacey sat staring down at the ground, determinedly looking away from the guards who did not hide their stares. She had never wished more to be in armor. Her dress was rapidly becoming damp as thunder cracked the sky and rain began to fall.

"Dacey!" Her two younger sisters were being dragged through the mud by two big Ironmen.

"Where are you taking them?" Dacey yelled at Greydon Goodbrother, who strolled behind, followed by two more men dragging Alysane Mormont with them.

Greydon waved his men forwards, and knelt so he could look Dacey in the face.

"You're pretty for a Mormont." He smirked. "Not that that says much."

Dacey spat in his face.

His hand crashed into her jaw. "Those little bitches will be slaves in the Iron Islands. I know of a few men who'd pay good gold for a bed slave."

He turned away, ignoring Dacey's screaming curses. He also ignored Alysane, who tore away from her captors and hurled herself onto Greydon's back, nails digging into his face, teeth biting at his ears. Greydon swore and yowled, struggling futilely to throw the maddened woman off his back. His guards finally pulled them apart, but not before Greydon was bleeding from a dozen bloody scratches. Alysane spat and hissed, blood flying from her mouth.

"You bitch!" Greydon screamed, fists hammering Alysane's face. "You tore off my fucking ear!"

Alysane grinned, spitting a ragged strip of flesh from her mouth.

Greydon looked at Dacey, who was grinning defiantly. "You fucking Mormont women think your so strong." Greydon sneered. "Hadrik! Give this bear slut to the men." Alysane was dragged away, still fighting. Greydon stared at Dacey for a long time, anger clear in his eyes.

"Your sister will die ugly." He growled. "You we'll do for tomorrow."

In the distance, Dacey heard Alysane scream. "Stop them."

Greydon laughed. "Stop them?"

"Please! Don't do this!" Dacey had gone very pale. "Not my sister. You don't need to do this."

"No I don't have to." Greydon nodded. He grabbed Dacey's jaw in a vice like hold. "I want to." He spat blood, and turned away from her.

"I'll do anything!" Dacey screamed after him. "Anything! Stop them!"

Now the women around her where wailing as well, some clawing at Greydon and their guards boots.

"Shut these whores up!" Greydon barked. "Take them to the ships. Leave the Mormont here."

The women were dragged away, leaving Dacey alone in the rain, her only company the distant sounds of screaming.

T

The screams of her sister stopped after a few hours. Flames and dark acrid smoke billowed from the ruined buildings the Ironborn had set alight.

Dacey lay in the mud, wrists bloody from struggling against her chains, weeping and cursing futilely into the darkness.

Thunder pealed again, and the rain fell harder, icy cold. Dacey shivered.

The smell of sap drifted to her over the smell of smoke and blood. Flames, darker than the rest rose from where Dacey knew the godswood sat. The Ironborn where burning the Mormont heart tree.

_Free me._ She thought. _Free me so I can kill them all._

The flames leapt higher, the dark blood red color spreading across to other fires. Thunder rolled again, and lightning forked across the sky.

_Let me have vengeance._ Dacey begged._ Let me punish them for destroying my house._

_Let me kill them_.

_Let me kill them._

She didn't know how long she sat, saying the words over and over. She must have fainted at some point, for when she looked up, the sun was peaking over the edge of the horizon, and the fires had become nothing more than smoke.

"Did you mean it?"

Dacey scrambled backwards. A short, wild looking man with spiky red hair crouched in front of her, a cheeky smile on his thin, weasel like face.

"Who are you?" he was dressed like a Southron noble. He wore a black tunic and breeches, a heavy sable cloak draped over his shoulders. A golden chain hung round his waist, a short sword on his hip.

"I have many names. Did you mean it? If you are free, would you kill them all?" Something about the man scared Dacey. He looked no older than thirty, but his eyes, dark and mischevious, looked far older. He seemed to be staring past her, into her heart.

"I can free you." The man said, and his voice echoed unnaturally as though a dozen men spoke instead of one. "But I must have your word you mean to kill them."

"Of course I mean it!" Dacey snapped. "Who are you!?"

The man shushed her violently, pressing a hand over her mouth. It was like having a brand against her skin. She recoiled, inhaling to scream, but the moment his touch was gone, so was the pain.

The man smiled at her, but the smile was icy cold. "Be silent. You will be free, when the sun peaks over that house," he pointed to a smoking ruin some fifty yards away.

"I don't understand."

"You don't need to." The man drew his sword. "I offer you a chance to escape your fate. It will not be easy, but it is better than waiting to be raped to death like your sister yes?" He danced backwards as Dacey lunged at him

"Bad choice of words, my apologies." The man smiled, clearly not sorry. "You will be free Dacey of Mormont, revenge on the men who killed your kin however, is your responsibility."

"What do you want in return for my freedom?" Dacey asked.

"Nothing!" The man cackled, his laugh like a crackling fire. "Your fate was to die here. I wish to see what you will do if you escape it."

"You aren't making sense."

The man grimaced, clearly growing impatient. "Do you accept or not?"

Dacey nodded.

The man grinned broadly. "Good." He grabbed her wrist suddenly, his iron grip burning on Dacey's skin. He dragged his sword across her arm, pressing the wound against his hand. Dacey screamed as steam rose from beneath the man's hand.

"There, all done." The man let go suddenly, Dacey wheezing and clutching her arm. Where the cut had been was now a small angry red scar.

"What are you?" Dacey asked once more.

"I am many things Dacey of Mormont," The man turned away. "I am the space between a lie and a truth, a flame and a shadow. A man and a monster."

"Are you a sorcerer?"

The man laughed, loud and long, and around him, smoking ash burst back into flame.

"A sorcerer!" The man cried, tears rolling down his face from mirth.

"A god then?"

The laughter stopped. The fires died, and suddenly Dacey felt very cold.

"Good guess girl." The man said. He seemed to grow larger, spiky red hair moving almost like the flames that had so recently burned around him. "I am Loki."

"Why are you helping me?" Dacey asked, her voice no more than a whisper, her back pressed against the wall behind her.

"Who said I'm helping you?" The man replied. He leaned forward till their noses almost touched. Her heart hammered in her chest, sheer animal panic gripping her. "I seek only amusement girl, and you might become quite amusing. I have changed the story that was your life girl, I have given you another page, another chapter, perhaps even more. You will be part of a story far older and greater than yourself girl."

Dacey could barely breathe, but as she mouthed wordlessly, the man-god seemed to understand.

""You will not remember me Dacey of Mormont, but I will remember you."

He touched her gently on the forehead and she faded into blackness.

She woke to rough hands hauling her to her feet, and the shouts of Ironborn.

She did not remember the man who was a god, but as she was dragged down towards the beach, away from her ruined home, she could have sworn she heard someone whisper;

"A fate unfinished,

A maiden broken,

A warrior made a King,

A song writ in ice and fire."

The whisper faded away with a faint cackling laugh.

T

They dragged her to the beach, where Greydon Goodbrother stood, looking out to sea. As she was forced down onto her knees, she caught a glimpse of his face. The Ironborn was paler, mouth set in a short grim line.

_He is nervous_ Dacey realized.

"Who could have seen the smoke?" Greydon asked suddenly, whirling to face Dacey.

She looked at him blankly. He hit her.

"Who could have seen the smoke!?" He screamed.

She looked at him, bewildered. "I don't…" He grabbed her head and forced her to face out to sea.

"There!" He hissed. "See them?"

There were ships sailing towards them.

"Who could have seen the smoke bitch? Whose ships are those?" Greydon snarled. "Answer me!"

"I don't know." Dacey said, but she was smiling when she said it. There were ten Ironborn long ships on the beach, but at least twice that number sailed towards them. Twenty men could be carried in a long ship, which meant the Ironborn were heavily outnumbered.

"Rodrik! Get the men!" Greydon snapped at one of his warriors.

The ships drew closer.

Dacey could see the men on board now, and her heart soared. These long ships did not carry Ironborn. From the largest ship, a monster of a long ship, the wood a dark red, a long horn blast echoed out through the sea wind.

By now all the Ironborn stood on the beach, fully armored. Greydon watched the sips warily, his hand toying with the hilt of his sword.

Men clambered from the long ships. They wore heavy coats of mail over thick wool and leather jerkins. Some wore heavy tunics over their mail. All carried the heavy round shields that Dacey had associated with longships. In silence, these men walked up to the beach, standing just where the tide came in, facing the Ironborn. Above them fluttered a white banner, emblazoned with a black, stylized image of a bird.

A man stepped out from the line of men, and yelled at the Ironborn in a strange, rumbling, language. The Ironborn raised their shields.

"Wait, wait!" Greydon yelled to his men. "Wait!"

The man who had spoken glanced at Greydon and then spoke again.

"I am Sigurd, son of Ragnar. I speak for my brother, Ivarr."

There was a pause.

"I am Greydon Goodbrother of Wyk. Who are you?"

The man gave a short nod, almost a bow. "We are Norsemen, who are you?"

"We are Ironborn." Greydon replied. "This is our island. What do you want?"

The man looked back to the men behind him. "We have been sailing for many days. My brother saw smoke on the horizon and we came looking for supplies."

"There is nothing here for you." Greydon said shortly. "Go away."

The man called Sigurd looked back once more, and spoke in the same rumbling tongue he had first used. Another man stepped out from the crowd, and pointed at Dacey, still chained at Greydon's feet. Sigurd said something in reply, and the man waved him away. The new speaker walked, slowly and deliberately to a few yards from Greydon.

He was immensely tall. Thick furs hung from his shoulders, and he wore a fine coat of dark mail that reached down to his knees, and a coat of lamellar. A long bladed sword hung from his waist.

"I am Ivarr." The man spoke, his accent twisting the words into an almost rhythmic rumble. "My men are hungry."

"Then go somewhere else for food!" Greydon snapped. The Ironborn's eyes kept shifting. Dacey could almost see Greydon sizing this large warrior up.

"I do not wish to go elsewhere." The warrior Ivarr replied. "Give us some food, and we shall go."

Greydon looked backwards. Dacey knew he was counting his men.

"Fine." The Ironborn snapped. "There's food there. Your brother and five men can go fetch it. The rest of you must go to the end of the beach." He pointed.

The warrior Ivarr nodded.

"That is fair."

He turned away, and walked back to his men, barking in that same strange language. Greydon grabbed Dacey's chain, and hauled her back towards his men.

"Rodrik." Greydon hissed once he was behind his men. "Move men close to the supplies. Twenty of them."

"Why lord?" The ironborn Rodrik asked.

"I don't trust these strangers. They aren't here for food, of that I am certain. They mean to steal our prize. Are the slaves and the loot on the ships?"

"All the loot lord. Only the Mormont girls and the man slaves are on the ships. The lads had for the women last night remember?"

"Fuck me!" Greydon snarled. "Fine, leave them. We seize the brother of this Ivarr, and we use him to get to the ships."

"Yes lord." The ironborn moved away, down the line, whispering to the men he passed.

"And you…: Greydon snarled, jabbing his finger at Dacey, "Had best stay silent."

"Coward!" Dacey spat.

"Alive at least." Greydon retorted. "Better than your sister."

Dacey hated him. Greydon seemed to realize threats were no use, as he pushed a gag into her mouth as the strangers went to gather up the supplies. Dacey stared pleadingly at the tall warrior Greydon had argued with, hoping against hope that he'd realize something was amiss. For a brief moment, she locked eyes with the two eye slits in Ivarr's helm, and she saw him glance sharply towards his brother, his hand dropping to his waist to draw his sword.

Ivarr's men reached the supplies, and Dacey heard the slither of steel as Greydon Goodbrother drew his sword and screamed a warcry.


	2. Ivarr I

I'm on a bit of a roll here for some reason. Got some time on my hands to finally scratch the itch!

Please read and review! I REALLY appreciate it!

As always, A song of ice and fire belongs to the master George R R Martin

Ivarr Ragnarsson belongs to history. This version is going to try to be as true to the character of the historical man as possible, albiet with some heavy invention of my own.

Enjoy!

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><p>Ivarr<p>

Ivarr felt a cold fury cut through him as the coward Greydon's men fell upon his brother. Behind him, his warriors roared in anger, rushing forwards to defend their comrades. Ivarr joined them, his long bladed sword singing through the air. The Iron born stepped forwards, moving to block Ivarr from their treacherous leader, who scrambled backwards, eyes wide.

They formed a passing resemblance of a shield wall, but then Ivarr's Vikings fell upon them, and the wall shattered like glass. Ivarr slashed downwards, cutting an Ironborn open from shoulder to waist. Another stepped forwards and swung a wicked axe at Ivarr's knee. Ivarr's sword slithered downwards to parry, and his shield rose up and caught the Ironborn on the jaw, sending him tumbling backwards into his compatriots.

Ivarr strode forwards, battering his way through the Ironborn line like an avalanche. He did not wait to ensure his foes deaths. That was for the men behind him. He simply pushed forwards, hewing limbs and opening bellies.

The Iron born scrambled backwards, darting away from the furious Viking onslaught towards their beached ships.

"Back! Back!" They cried. Many threw down their weapons and ran, pushing past one another to reach the safety of the sea. Ivarr saw Sigurd amongst a group of more heavily armored Iron born, dragged swearing and fighting on board a long ship, the Iron born leader just ahead of him. As they pulled Sigurd aboard, the leader turned and buried his sword in Sigurd's chest.

Time seemed to stop. Ironborn came at Ivarr as if in slow motion. He saw as if through a red haze. He heard a voice screaming incoherently, as if from a long ways away. His brother was dead. Iron born fell like wheat before a scythe as Ivarr, son of Ragnar raged against his brother's death. He cut at them until his sword broke. When it did, he crushed them with his shield. When that broke he beat the life from them with his hands, screaming hatefully at those who dared to get in his way.

Sigurd had been young, no more than sixteen. He had mimicked Ivarr since they had been children, following his brother in everything. He'd been a gifted warrior, and might have become a great one, if not for that traitor's sword in his back.

As the long ship slid away, carrying his brother's killer, Ivarr swore a terrible vengeance. He would find Greydon Goodbrother. He would find his brothers, his sisters, his father, his mother, his friends, and his children. He would find them and he would slaughter them all. He would tear their hall apart. He would burn their lands and kill their people. He would destroy the line of Goodbrother so utterly that men a hundred years later would fear to even whisper the name of the traitors who dared to murder the brother of Ivarr Ragnarsson. He would do this, or by the All Father, he would not enter Valhalla and sit amongst his kin in the halls of the Aesir.

T

"…ord…"

"…ord!"

"Lord!"

Ivarr looked around. He was on his knees, covered in blood. A dozen corpses lay littered around him. Just to his left, a Norse warrior watched him with cautious eyes.

"What is it?" Ivarr croaked. His throat felt as though he had swallowed fire. He could barely speak.

"You fell into the battle fury lord." The warrior said slowly, grabbing Ivarr under the arm to help him to his feet. "Only one ship escaped lord. We killed the rest of them."

"Thank you." Ivarr recognized the warrior who still supported him, Olaf Tyngeson. He and Ivarr had fought together since child hood. When Ivarr became a lord under his father Ragnar Lodbrok, Olaf had been made Thane of Ivarr's hall, commander of his Huscarls. "How many men did we lose?"

"Not many lord." Olaf replied, tugging gently on his long beard, a habit the man had had since he could grow a beard. "A few men killed, some were wounded, but nothing serious. Hrokir is seeing to them now."

Ivarr nodded. "Where is Sigurd?"

Olaf didn't answer. The Viking warrior just looked down at the bloody sand, resting his chin on the blade of the long hafted axe all huscarls carried.

"Where is my brother?" Ivarr growled.

"We…could not find his body lord." Olaf muttered. "He was not amongst the dead."

Ivarr cursed, then staggered. Immediately, Olaf grabbed his arm.

"Easy lord!" He turned to yell at one of the Viking warriors who was picking over the dead,  
>"You, bring the Jarl a wineskin!"<p>

"I'm fine." Ivarr grunted as Olaf lowered him onto a rock.

"Tyr's hand you are!" Olaf snapped. "There is no shame in it lord, the battle fury weakens all men." He pressed a wine skin into Ivarr's hand.

"Drink all of it lord. I'll see to the men."

He made to go, but Ivarr stopped him. "Burn our dead in the traitor's ships. Strip the enemy dead and give them to the sea."

"Yes lord." Olaf gripped Ivarr's shoulder briefly. "I am sorry for your brother."

Olaf left Ivarr sitting on a rock staring out to sea, blood staining the sand around his feet, the Viking Jarl alone with his sadness and his fury.

T

The sun was at its zenith when Ivarr's dead warriors were given to the gods. Ivarr had the bodies of the Iron born stripped and loaded onto one of the remaining ships. His dead warriors lay in honor, ready to make their last voyage, upon a mountain of enemy dead.

_A passage fit for kings._ Ivarr watched the enemy long ship slide out to sea, sails set.

"Your bow, lord." Olaf stood by his elbow, proffering a great yew long bow to his Jarl. Ivarr nocked an arrow, the tip wrapped in cloth and dipped in pitch. The tip was lit, and Ivarr drew back. The bow creaked in protest as Ivarr drew the bow to its very limit. He held the arrow by his ear for several minutes, watching the long ship drift towards the horizon.

When the ship was silhouetted on the horizon, Ivarr let the arrow fly.

The flaming bolt hit the long ship, igniting the pitch that had been poured over the deck. The long ship flames furiously for a moment, then disappeared beyond the horizon, carrying the five slain Vikings into the halls of Valhalla.

Ivarr could hear murmurs behind him. His warriors, still bloody from the battle field, offered words to Odin, father of battle, of their slain comrades valor and skill. When night came, the Norsemen would break open kegs of ale, and sing praises for the dead. For now, Ivarr wanted his men to work.

"Get them back to work." He strode past Olaf, away from the shore.

"Stop standing around you lazy bastards!" Olaf roared. "You can cry like women after you finish the Jarl's work!" Ivarr's warriors dispersed, piling up looted arms, or pulling supplies from the now beached Norse long ships. The wounded warriors sat by the piled Ironborn weapons, making themselves useful by sorting and stacking the gear, under the watchful eye of a short, wiry man in a heavy brown cloak. Hrokir Gundersson had an unusual relationship with Ivarr's warriors. They respected the small Dane as a priest of Odin and as a man of learning, but absolutely dreaded going to visit him with injury. Warriors who would walk into an impossible battle without a second thought, cringed at the thought of having to go see Hrokir to heal a wound. The prickly Dane was not by any means the gentlest of healing men.

The wounded grinned up at their Jarl, most young warriors, new to battle. They showed Ivarr their wounds, boasting of the men they had slain. They grinned proudly when Ivarr acknowledged their deeds, grumbling about their lack of caution. The Jarl gave praise rarely, and even when that praise came with reprimand, it was highly prized.

"They'll all fight harder next time." Hrokir complained, the short Dane trotting after his Jarl. "And I'll have to stitch them up again."

"Wounds are common in battle." Ivarr replied, patting a warrior on the back as the Viking trudged past, a heavy barrel over his shoulder. "They teach a man caution."

"And how many times did you have to learn that lesson?" Hrokir retorted. "I've patched your hide more times than I can count Ivar the Boneless."

Ivarr snorted in amusement. "I yet live do I not?"

"Yes, no thanks to you." Hrokir grumbled. The pair made their way off the beach, towards the remnants of the village the Ironborn had defended. "That name has done you no favors."

"A man's name is who he is brother. You know that." He waved at a small group of Vikings clustered around a pile of Ironborn swords. "You six, come with me." The men fell into step, trailing after the Jarl and his priest.

"Some names are better than others lord." Hrokir muttered, scratching at his thick black beard. "Ivarr the Keen Minded, Ivarr the Sailor. Those are good names. Boneless is not."

They entered the ruined village, and paused. Corpses lined the dirt streets, most male, some clad in common garb, a select few in mail coats and green tunics.

"The defenders of this village you think lord?" A warrior asked, nudging one of the green tunics with his boot.

"No doubt." Another offered. "They died facing forwards at least."

"Not cowards then."

"Quiet!" Hrokir snapped. "Can you hear that?"

The Norsemen fell silent. A soft crying noise drifted to them.

There were women chained together in one of the ruined houses. Ivarr waved his men forwards, and the chained women shrank back from the gore stained Norsemen. A young woman stood in front of the others, a sword raised before her, a determined grimace on her face. The warriors tried to approach, speaking in Norse, but when they tried to approach, the sword would flicker out, driving them back.

Ivarr called the men back. He sent one to find Olaf and more men. The rest stood awkwardly in front of the ruined house, unsure how to proceed.

"Hrokir, get the men back." Ivarr grunted.

"You don't have a weapon lord." Hrokir cautioned. "That girl looks quite handy with that blade."

"A woman in chains won't end me." Ivarr retorted.

Hrokir looked like he wanted to argue, but stayed silent.

Ivarr approached the house, hands open. "May I approach?" he asked slowly. "I am without a blade."

The woman glared at him, then barked at him in what sounded like Saxon. He coughed, and tried again.

He never liked Saxon, it felt strange, but his father had insisted all his sons learn the language. It helps to speak the language of those you raided.

"You are the warrior who spoke with the Ironborn."

It was not Saxon, similar but not the same. The language was more lyrical, with greater variation in tone, compared to the dull yammering of the English Saxons Ivarr and his brothers had fought and raided.

"I am." Ivarr nodded.

"I saw only the beginning of the battle. Where are they?" The girl's sword had lowered to her side, but she eyed Ivarr warily.

"Dead."

The girl nodded, a half smile flickering across her face for a second.

"My people are in need of food and shelter."

"Food and shelter I have." Ivarr grunted.

Behind him, Ivarr heard the sound of boots, and of his Thane Olaf hissing in Norse to Hrokir. "My men will cut your bonds." He offered, gesturing to the women who still huddled together behind the sword wielding girl.

"Please." The girl replied. Ivarr gestured, heard Olaf snapping at the men in Norse. The women recoiled from the Viking warriors, retreating from the tall Norsemen in their heavy furs, stained with blood.

"They're trying to cut you free." The girl yelled over the sound of the whimpering women. "They won't hurt you." The women seemed to relax, letting the Norsemen sever the ropes that bound them.

"What is your name?" The girl was looking at Ivarr, her face less hostile, but no less wary.. The sword, Ivarr noted, was still drawn.

"I am Ivar Ragnarsson. Men call me the Boneless."

The girl nodded. "I am Dacey of House Mormont.I would thank you Ivar Ragnarsson. The men you fought burned my home and killed my people." The girl's eyes drifted over the ruins that surrounded her, and to Ivarr, she seemed to shrink. "I regret I have no accommodations suitable for a guest, but you are welcome to what you can find."

Ivarr nodded curtly. "My thanks. My men will see to your wounded." The girl ducked her head, a look of relief on her face. He turned away from her, and looked up at the sky. The sun was falling rapidly, and darkness would come soon.

"Where could we build a fire?" Ivarr asked. The girl looked at him askance.

"The great hall has a fire pit, but it would have to be cleared." She pointed to the ruin of what had once been a high roofed long house.

"It will serve." Ivarr withdrew from the ruined house, gesturing for Olaf to approach. The girl clambered out after him, hovering behind him as he spoke quietly with his Thane.

"What are you going to do now?" she asked, her voice unsure.

_Avenge my brother. Kill the men who wronged me._

"My men will care for your people. Then we will build a fire and honor our dead."

_But not Sigurd._

_Not my brother._

His anger boiled up within his chest, not red hot and thunderous as it had been when Sigurd fell. It was a wintry hatred, cold and patient. It might take a life time, but such a hatred would never tire.

He walked away from the girl and the ruined house, gripped by a sudden desire to be alone.


End file.
